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miks-fantrolls · 3 months

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The Terror of the Twenty-Seven Seas

Part 2: Sentire

(Content warning: drowning, gore)

Part 1 // Google Docs

When you open your eyes, the harsh glare of the morning sun assaults your vision, forcing you to shield your eyes with a groan. Blinking away the remnants of sleep, you slowly acclimate to the blinding brightness, each blink accompanied by a fleeting sensation of disorientation, the world around you coming into focus like a hazy dream.

Gradually, the gritty texture of stone pressing against your skin

registers, and you realize you’re sprawled out on a weathered stone bench. The coolness of the stone provides a welcome relief from the oppressive heat of the sun beating down on your exposed skin. With aching muscles, you muster the strength to sit up, the stiffness of your joints a testament to the deep slumber that must have enveloped you.

Despite the sun's warmth, an inexplicable chill lingers at the back of your throat. The scent of salt and sea spray fills your nostrils, carried on a gentle breeze that rustles through the nearby palm trees. You inhale the strangely dry air, savoring the briny aroma.

Around you, the seaport bustles with the frenetic energy of a

typical summer morning. The air is alive with the raucous calls of seabirds, their cries mingling with the distant clang of shipyard bells. The rhythmic lapping of waves against the jetty provides a backdrop of white noise. Trolls bustle to and fro, their voices rising and falling in animated dialogue as they go about their daily tasks.

Amid the lively crowd, a familiar voice pierces through the clamor, drawing your attention like a beacon on the chaos.

“Yo, Appy!”

The call is unmistakable, and you turn to see the source—a young, scrappy-looking troll dressed in what may as well be rags waving at you with one arm, the other clutching a large rucksack slung over his shoulder. His clothes, a patchwork of fabrics stitched together with care, tell a story of resourcefulness and resilience. Worn-out and oversized boots against the cobblestone path as he moves with a confident swagger, every step a testament to his familiarity with the active port.

You catch glimpses of the countless adventures etched into his weather-beaten face with each movement. As he approaches, you can’t help but notice how his tousled hair frames his cheeks, a wild mane of unruly strands that adds to his rugged charm. His skin, freckled by the sun, bears the marks of a life lived on the world's edge, where every day brings new challenges and untold dangers. But it’s his eyes that draw you in—bright, lively blue orbs that seem to sparkle with a mischievous glint.

Your name is Aipalo Lovikk, and you are one of the many ship’s boys for the Tempest’s Fall. The realization floods back with startling clarity. How could you have forgotten?

The other troll draws nearer with an air of excitement, his grin widening as he revels in your momentary disorientation.

“Did ya sleep good?” he teases, his tone playful and infectious. Despite the haziness of your thoughts, a smile grows on your face, mirroring his own.

“Shut up. Did you get—” You hesitate, the memory of your task momentarily escaping you.

“Yep,” he answers without missing a beat, his confidence unwavering. “Got it all myself while you were lazin’ about on the bench.”

Before you can compose an answer, the other troll speaks again: "Race you to the ship!"

With a playful glance in your direction, he turns and bolts back towards the ship, his movements fluid and purposeful. Panic surges within you as you realize you’re in danger of losing sight of him amidst the sea of bodies. With a determined grit, you stumble off the bench and race after him, the coarse surface scraping against your skin as you push forward.

The maze of trolls grows denser as you navigate the chaotic port, their figures towering over you as you struggle to keep pace with your fleet-footed shipmate. You bump and weave through the crowd, each collision threatening to knock you off course. But you refuse to let yourself falter, driven by a fierce fortitude to keep your shipmate in sight.

He had always been a faster runner than you.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of frantic pursuit, you manage to catch up, your chest heaving as you double over to catch your breath. Your companion smirks at your panting form, seemingly unfazed by the exertion of the chase. Inhaling deeply, you straighten up and puff out your chest, attempting to regain some semblance of composure. But your efforts are in vain as the other notices the tremor in your breath and the exhaustion etched on your face. With a hearty laugh, he slaps you on the back, his infectious energy pulsing through the air.

“Come on,” he urges, his voice filled with an undeniable sense of camaraderie. And with his reassuring presence by your side, you gather your strength and follow him.

As you follow your companion towards the Tempest’s Fall, the enormity of the vessel looms before you like a behemoth of the sea, its sturdy frame a testament to its seafaring prowess. Crew members scurry like ants, their movements purposeful and efficient as they load and unload cargo with practiced precision. Despite the chaos of activity, there is an unmistakable sense of solidarity among the sailors, a bond forged through shared experiences on the open sea.

With your companion leading the way, you climb the gangplank. His steps are sure and steady as he guides you, the wooden planks creaking beneath your feet as you ascend. The other sailors pay you no mind, their attention focused solely on their tasks, leaving you to navigate through the tangle of bodies. At times, you find yourself having to dodge and weave between the larger sailors, their imposing figures threatening to edge you off the side.

Once aboard the ship, the chaos of the port seems to melt away, replaced by the rhythmic pulse of life at sea. The air is alive with the sound of chatter and hollers, the clatter of bootsteps echoing across the wooden deck. You find yourself grabbing the back of your companion’s shirt, the throng of seamen swirling around you like a maelstrom and threatening to pull you under with each passing movement.

As the two of you make your way towards the heart of the ship, the harried atmosphere only intensifies. Eventually, you find yourselves within the ship’s interior, where the salty tang of sea air mingles with the tantalizing aroma of cooking meat. The ship’s cook bustles about the galley, orchestrating a symphony of culinary delights in preparation for the upcoming meal. The promise of a special feast, courtesy of the port’s bountiful offerings, hangs in the air, infusing the atmosphere with anticipation.

Your companion engages in a brief exchange with the cook. Then, with one swift movement, he transfers the rucksack into your arms, the weight catching you off guard. You stagger under the burden, struggling to maintain your balance as you adjust to the added load.

“It’s your turn to carry this stuff,” the other troll declares, his tone firm and authoritative. He flexes his overworked shoulder with a practiced motion, a playful glint in his eye. “Chef says to take it to the storerooms.”

You hesitate momentarily, a pang of uncertainty creeping into your mind. “Aren’t you coming with me?” you ask, a hint of insecurity coloring your tone.

The other troll chuckles, his grin widening mischievously. “You really need a second person to help you with that?” Despite his teasing words, a warmth in his gaze reassures you.

As you stand there, feeling the weight of the supplies in your arms, you can’t help but feel strangely comforted by the presence of your shipmate. There’s something about him that makes you feel at ease, as though you’ve known him for far longer than you actually have. It’s a curious sensation, one that you can’t quite explain, but you find yourself drawn to him and his twinkling blue eyes all the same.

With a sense of determination, you fall into step beside him as he leads the way down towards the store rooms. The darkness of the lower deck seems to close in around you, the dim light casting eerie shadows that dance across the wooden walls as the vessel sways back and forth. The creaking of the ship’s timbers echo through the narrow passageways, a reminder of the ship’s age. The fins on either side of your head press down against your cheeks, and you walk closer to your companion.

You try to shake off the unease that creeps over you by focusing on the task at hand. No matter how hard you try to distract yourself, though, the sense of foreboding still lingers, a nagging presence at the back of your mind. It’s as if the ship itself is trying to warn you of some impending danger, but the message remains elusive, just out of reach.

The two of you enter the appropriate storeroom for the supplies you carry. It’s a cramped space, filled to the brim with crates and barrels, the air heavy with the scent of salt and damp wood. Were the two of you fully grown, you would have never fit inside. As you work together to unpack the supplies and stow them in their proper places, you distract yourself from your nerves by stealing glances at your shipmate, studying his features in the dim light. His face is illuminated by the soft glow of the lanterns, casting flickering shadows across his face.

You realize suddenly that you don’t even know his name, a fact that strikes you odd, considering how comfortable you feel in his presence. The realization weighs heavily on your mind, gnawing at your thoughts like a persistent itch you can’t scratch. Finally, unable to ignore it any longer, you gather the courage to speak up.

“Hey,” you begin tentatively, breaking the silence that hangs between you. “I just realized, I don’t think I caught your name earlier.”

He pauses in his work, turning to look at you with a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Forgot already, huh?”

His response catches you off guard, and your face flushes with embarrassment. You try to recall if you indeed had forgotten his name, but your memory feels like a jumbled mess, the details slipping through your grasp like grains of sand. A surge of panic threatens to overwhelm you as you struggle to piece together the fragments of your memory.

An alarming sense of disorientation washes over you like the ground shifting beneath your feet. For a moment, it feels as though you’re teetering over the edge of a precipice, on the brink of being consumed by the void. A presence at the back of your mind pulses darkly, its ominous whispers echoing through the recesses of your consciousness, and, just for a moment, you’re terrified that you’ll be swept from this reality.

All at once, the feeling passes, perplexed and shaken. You blink rapidly, trying to dispel the lingering sense of unease that clings to you like a shadow. Pushing aside your fear, you force yourself to focus on the task, immersing yourself in the mundane routine of shelving supplies. The rhythmic clatter of items being placed on shelves, punctuated by the occasional rustle of fabric and the soft shuffle of footsteps, eases your nerves.

Finally, you pause, unable to shake the nagging feeling of uncertainty that tugs at the edges of your consciousness. “Have I already asked for your name?” you venture, avoiding his gaze.

A laugh suddenly erupts from the other troll, surprising you into meeting his gaze. His eyes twinkle with amusement, and you find yourself drawn to the warmth of his expression. Despite your earlier apprehension, a reassuring sincerity in his laughter puts you at ease.

“Yeah, but I guess you napped so hard earlier you musta forgot.” He extends his calloused hand for a handshake. You match the gesture, noting how much warmer his rough palm is than yours. “The name’s ░░░░░░, nice to meet’cha.”

As he introduces himself, a wave of dizziness washes over you, causing the world to tilt and spin. You struggle to maintain your composure, your senses reeling from the sudden onslaught of disorientation. The edges of your vision blur and that striking terror is back all at once, and tendrils of darkness swim in the corners of your vision.

“Are you alright, Aipalo?” His voice cuts through the haze, concern evident in his tone. He reaches out a hand to steady you, his touch grounding you in reality.

You nod weakly, trying to push aside the unsettling sensation that grips your mind. “Say your name again?”

His lips move again, forming words that you struggle to comprehend. Your ears buzz with static, the sound drowning out his voice as if muffled by a thick fog. You strain to make sense of his words, but they slip away like elusive whispers in the wind.

“░░░░░░,” he repeats, his smile faltering slightly as he notices your confusion. He reaches up to touch his mouth, and you catch a glimpse of his missing canine, a gap in his smile that seems oddly out of place.

Was he missing that tooth before? You can’t quite remember. Your mind feels foggy, as if shrouded in a dense mist that obscures your thoughts. You blink, trying to clear away the haze, but it only seems to deepen, enveloping you in a suffocating embrace.

As his lips move, attempting to convey his name, the world around you warps. The once-familiar storeroom dissolves into a rotted nightmare. Shadows along the walls contort into grotesque shapes that seem to leer at you, almost becoming gargoyle-like in appearance.

The timber of the ship that surrounds you rots before your eyes, its once-sturdy frame now a decaying husk that threatens to collapse at any moment—the wood eaten away by unseen forces and the surface overtaken by a slimy film of algae. Fungi and mold grow unchecked, spreading like a disease throughout the room and emitting a foul odor that assaults your senses.

As you struggle to breathe in the stifling air, the stench of old, rotted food permeates the room, clawing its way down your throat and into your lungs like a suffocating fog. Each breath is a strain, the putrid air burning your lungs and making you gag as you fight to keep from retching.

Desperately, you focus on the other troll’s face, his features becoming your lifeline amidst the chaos. But even he is not immune to the unsettling transformation taking place before your eyes. His once-smiling visage twists and distorts, morphing into a grotesque caricature of itself. His eyes, once twinkling with warmth, now sink into his skull, becoming dark, unseeing pits that seem to bore into your soul. His smile grows decrepit, lips wrinkling like a grape in the sun, revealing rows of decayed teeth that crumble and fall apart with each passing moment, holes worming through the enamel until nothing is left but the drippings of loosened gum tissue.

The flesh of his cheeks sag and droop, exposing patches of rotting muscle and sinew beneath. Skin begins to peel away in ragged strips, revealing raw, oozing wounds that fester underneath. It’s as if the very fabric of his being unravels, the decay eating away at him from the inside out. Flesh melts away like wax in a scorching flame, leaving behind a trail of bubbling, fetid meat that sloughs off in chunks, revealing the stark whiteness of his skeletal frame beneath.

Rot fills the thick and cloying air as he’s consumed from within. Each exposed muscle twitches and writhes as if alive, pulsating with a sickening rhythm. With each passing moment, his form becomes more skeletal, the bones protruding from his decaying flesh like twisted branches of a dead tree.

A rush of seawater surges in through the rotted wood, carrying with it a sickly, briny odor that stings your nostrils with its foulness. The acrid scent clings to your skin alongside the freezing rapids like a foul miasma. You half-wonder if death would be easier than this sickening cocktail of odors—a nauseating blend of noxious fumes that threaten to overwhelm you.

The water itself is no better, a sickly shade of green that seems to throb with a malevolent energy. It’s thick and viscous, like oil mixed with sewage, and clings to you like a second skin, leaving a greasy residue in its wake. As it fills the room, the water becomes a swirling vortex of filth and decay, rising steadily as if eager to claim its victims. You feel it seeping into your clothes, numbing your skin with its icy touch.

Panic grips you as you realize the gravity of the situation, but as you try to move, you realize the skeletal hand of the other troll is closed around yours with an iron grasp. Bits and pieces of raisined skin and gristle cling to the bone, brushing against the flesh of your hand. You struggle against its grip, but it's like trying to break free from the grip of death itself.

With each futile attempt to pull away, you feel the skeleton’s fingers dig deeper into your flesh, the bony digits tightening like a vice around your wrist. You can almost feel the decay radiating from its bones, a rancid odor that fills your nostrils and makes bile rise in the back of your throat. The skeleton seems to grin at you, its empty eye sockets boring into you as if relishing your terror, feeding off your fear like a ravenous beast. You can’t help but feel a sense of revulsion, the visage of death staring back at you with mocking amusement.

Your heart pounds in your chest, the sound reverberating in your ears like a drumbeat of impending doom. You lose control of your breath, becoming light-headed as you push and pull air quickly. You try to keep your mouth above the flood as it rises, but every gasp you make earns you mouthfuls of the pungent brine. The taste of decay coats your tongue, a foul saltiness that makes you retch.

Desperation claws at your mind as you struggle to break free, your movements becoming frantic and erratic as you fight for survival. But with each passing moment, the water rises, its icy tendrils pulling you into the depths with a relentless force. You jerk your wrist, the rough bone of the skeleton’s hand rubbing your skin raw in the process, but it’s no use. The skeleton’s grip only tightens, its fingers digging into your flesh with an iron determination, and a white-hot agony shoots up through your arm.

As the last vestiges of air escape your lungs, you feel a primal instinct take hold, driving you to fight against the inevitable. You try to scream, but the watery sludge fills your mouth, muffling your cries and drowning out your voice. You thrash and struggle, clawing desperately at the water with your one free hand in a futile attempt to reach the surface.

Your vision blurs and the world around you begins to fade. Your eyes flutter shut.

#hi im tired of looking at this #mikart #mikwrites #aipalo lovikk #the necrosed #[blue eyes]

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trollcafe · 3 months

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What do you mean your souls are made of the same thing?

"I'm genuinely not sure how you want me to explain that to you. It's a quote. From a book. It means what it means and if you don't understand, then that sucks buddy."

#khirti speaks #KITTY REDESIGN INCOMING.#(base by necrosed / cadaver trolls <3 just cropped rn for the sake of answering this ask)#chow.ask

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purulens-kopet · 4 months

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#necrose #grindcore #noisecore

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outlying-hyppocrate · 7 months

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everything tastes of apples, i am offering whatever i now keep in my spattered hands to you as well. we call it crispin, carelessly retch into sickened palms, i necrose

#random thoughts #carelessly retch into sickened palms i necrose. no right sounding so. that #anyway. yes

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hauntedurge · 8 months

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@necrosin : ❛ you look like you just saw a ghost. ❜ ; necrose @ briar / accepting.

—— Your palms sweat, twitch, head screaming and ripping itself to bloodied bits — and only half - because of the obvious. You teeth grind, every minute inch of your freame screaming. MY TEETH MY PALMS THE BODY IS ME THE BODY IS MINE. It hurts / it hurts / the agony goes slithering, physical when it's been thing long since she ———

Her lips part — her body wants to growl, wants to say I'll rip your skin off like paper, wants to say I'll drink your blood from the gash I'll leave in that pretty throat, WANTS TO DO NOTHING BUT RIP FLESH FROM BONES. If you don't let them, your teeth and bones will rip themself from your flesh and the false humanity you've torn into it, do the work they were made for. MY TEETH MY BODY MY CONTROL MY CONTROL MY CONTROL ONLY MINE.

"You — need to get away from me," she hisses instead, unable to force herself to walk away, unable to force her legs to move away from what might be prey, body screaming, knowing the agony would go away if you just KILLED THEM, NOT MY CONTROL AT ALL——

She knows she goes ashen and awful, when it gets bad, trembling, the torture that makes her blood feel like poison inviting concern — like a fucking predator, drawing prey nearer, playing sick and dead to do it — but she doesn't fucking WANT to kill Necrose their concern. You don't want the concern of these fucking weaklings, not when you're meant to devour the unworthy, to watch how beautiful their faces are when the life drains from them, you ——.

"Go." Voice dangerous, voice monstrous, IS THAT ME OR YOU? "Now."

#briar : main verse.#answered.#queue.#sorry abt her she wants to kill all the time! its not great </3 #playing w the concept of a narrator here. anyway necrose kill this clown

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kyngsnake · 2 years

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lucky number 6

#fallout #fallout new vegas #courier six #I think I swapped which side of his face is necrosing lol #ken's #autumn art #scars /#guns /

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dirt-str1der · 1 year

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Why was the animation in this scene sp fluid and brutal

#Yakuza liveplay #LIKE HEYY... and every time it cuts back to saejimas sorrowful face ..#how the fuck did i forget about this scene .. like i always talk about kiryus necrosed purple black fingertips but like this was .. oouuu #they should have modelled a broken nose onto the guy

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thenighteternal · 2 years

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Necroseer - Facades

#morningstar #necroseer #facades #music

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necrosin · 8 months

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❝ how does magic feel to you? ❞ the silence that had settled breaks swiftly / what good is silence against the demands of nature / against the steady murmurings of death? it is something that had been piquing their curiosity —— it had never occurred to them before that magic could very well feel VASTLY DIFFERENT for others than it did to her, who hadn't truly known that it was magic that they were doing. there was simply the thrum of wilderness like a hummingbird in her chest ( next to a deathly still heart ) and she had followed its call and guidance with hardly a thought. it was simply ( ... ) natural. ❝ you seem convinced i am, what did you say, a druid? is that different from your arcane talents? ❞

@prsstrt —— for lief, from necrose !!

#NECROSE，in char.#prsstrt #prsstrt : lief.#i fully thought i was going to write smth for yen #imagine my surprise when this is what my brain gave me

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miks-fantrolls · 3 months

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The Terror of the Twenty-Seven Seas

Part 1: Divenire

(Content warning: drowning)

Google Docs

There are plenty of great diving spots along the Miylas Coast. That’s what you’ve heard, at least, from other divers and well-known seadwellers who’ve made a visit or two to the area. Whenever you visit a diving spot, you like to immerse yourself in the culture there—it’s the least you can do: learn about a place and its history instead of shoving it aside like some tourist trap. It feels respectful, you think.

Port Laysian is no different. You’ve spent the past week learning about the history of the place from some of the museums and talking to the locals. It’s important to support the local economy of any place you visit. You feel that it’s only right in return for access to their diving ports. None of these places are required to share such local resources with tourists, but they often do, and you’re grateful.

The town was originally established as a local military base by trolls native to the planet way back in the day, when Her Majesty’s Imperial Army (HMIA for short, because it’s a mouthful) had been invading the planet for resources. HMIA usually wastes no time conquering a planet, but this one had been unusually well-prepared. Of course, like all other planets, it eventually caved to Imperial demands (you’re sure the planet's natives had been thoroughly beaten). Still, it held out for almost one hundred sweeps, which was almost completely unheard of.

You’ve found that imperial presence isn’t as strong here as it supposedly used to be, either. Initially, according to locals, it was impossible to turn a corner without running into some imperial guard. This was, of course, to prevent any rebel cooperation. A freshly conquered planet is a great place to find sore feelings and, therefore, so often the target of non-native rebels to increase recruitment numbers. Seeing as the planet had lasted so long against the empire—an amount of time that was unheard of, actually; you’re sure it was scrubbed from all general textbooks and records—you can only imagine the gold mine rebels saw it for.

Before Eraniel had been captured by imperial conquest, it supposedly had plenty of culture. No planet is ever without internal conflict, but this one had been as close to planetary peace as possible. It had a standard planetary ruler but in the form of a government where no one troll was ever solely in charge. In addition to that, the government members only ruled for a set number of sweeps before they were swapped out with another civilian. A randomly chosen civilian, might you add, of any blood color or denomination.

Apparently, the idea behind the government had been that it was a civic duty to serve their fellow trollkind. Obviously, the planet's population was too large for every troll of age to serve in a governmental position. Still, the idea was to have the common people represented by themselves. Where you’ve seen texts upon texts glorifying old leaders and governmental structures on other planets and of the empire itself, this planet’s recollection of its history seems... subdued, in a sense. As if it were as natural as the nose on your face.

The old relics and history placards you see in-town were almost definitely hidden away at one point, beyond the empire’s grasp. Were an important fleet official to see this today, it would be smashed to bits instantly for impudence. However, personally and privately, you enjoy seeing what remains of history. You would never say this out loud to another troll, but you don’t see the harm in reminders of history. Then again, when you look at the alien ways of a past society, thoughts of “what if” never fill your head, as they may for others. You’re admittedly a privileged person who has no reason to want change. You can’t honestly say the same for those beneath you. In a perfect world, you’re sure things could be better for everyone, but obviously that’s impossible. Under the current system, you couldn’t ask for much more—the Empress knows what’s best for trollkind.

When you reach the docks, you come across a large information board with a degraded banner that’s seen better days across the top. At some point, a tack must have come loose because the upper right corner of the graphic peels away from the board, obscuring itself and part of the information below it. With a glance over each of your shoulders, you remove the plexiglass that shields the content within. You carry multitudes of meaningless clutter wherever you go, so it only takes a few moments to find a pushpin somewhere deep within your sylladex before using it to pin back the unwieldy corner of the poster.

As you smooth it out, you notice tiny bits of color sticking to your fingers—you realize you’re damaging the banner and hurry to put the plexiglass back where it originally was. The banner must have been traditionally printed with paper and printer ink. Such technology is wholly outdated to the point most newer generations would have no idea what an ink printer is, which makes you all the more eager to preserve the printed work.

You finally stand back to observe the noticeboard. A few one-off notices pinned to the board remind beach-goers to pay attention to rip currents and current weather conditions. One poster depicts different flags and what they mean regarding the beach—double red means closed off, single red means high hazard, yellow medium, green low, and purple for marine pests. Glancing about, you spot a flagpole closer to the shore, but the flag attached to it hangs at half-mast, bleached by the sun in the sweeps it’s been up there. You get the feeling that the notices and flagpole serve no purpose but historical value at this point.

The main banner, the one you straightened out, touches either edge of the bulletin. You can tell the colors used to be vibrant at once. A Fuschia troll gloats over a treasure chest, one white boot atop it, the other firm in the sand. A ghastly scar runs vertically across the troll’s right eye, and, notably, said eye contains no pupil. Large hoop earrings pierce each of their fins, and you find yourself wondering if they ever get caught in the lengthy, wild hair that flows past their knees. They are adorned in what looks to be a white, gold, and fuschia naval uniform. However, with the gold coins scattered across the sand and the looming pirate ship behind the troll, you have the feeling that they were likely not associated with any governmental agency.

The most significant piece of paper on the board sits directly below the graphic, its title typed in a large, blue, horror-type font that reads, “BLUE HOLE OF MIYLAS: THE NECROSED.” You smile. You’ve never been one much for curses and legends and the like, but you do enjoy a good story. Skimming through the handful of paragraphs, you glean the majority of the tale:

Very long ago, before the conquest of Eraniel, a scoundrel of a pirate lived—"the worst to have ever roamed the twenty-seven seas,” according to the story. Apparently, the troll had started off as a Robinhood-type figure before spiraling into the bastard they came to be known as. One day, the captain’s crew finally had enough of them and started a mutiny. The sea troll was tossed overboard into the very sea stretched before you and drowned. Legend now has it that these waters, specifically the blue hole, are cursed. Supposedly, the troll—now known only as “The Necrosed,” their original name and title lost to history—lies imprisoned at the bottom of the Miylas sea, forever caught in a purgatorial loop. According to the poster, locals swear up and down that any troll who goes deeper than a specific limit is never seen again.

It's a cute story, you have to admit. While you’ve seen your fair share of horrors while diving (both expected and unexpected), this, if true, would certainly be up there in terms of rank. It also, you think, is a load of baloney. Nothing more than a warning disguised by prose, aimed at tourists and the like to discourage diving in the blue hole. Admittedly, the blue hole is mainly what you came to see. You have a liberal amount of trimixes and the like stored in your sylladex specifically for deep-diving. Optimistically, you would love to discover what lies at the bottom of the Blue Hole of Miylas, but you know better than to push your limits when diving. Plenty of seasoned divers have drowned here and in other similar locations, foolishly overestimating themselves and perishing as a result.

What’s fascinating to you, however, is that in the Miylas Sea, seadwellers are reduced to diving via land-dweller methods. As the tale mentioned, the sea is naturally anoxic, meaning there is too little oxygen to sustain a sea troll’s complex aquavascular system. So, even if the whole monster-stuck-in-purgatory thing is false, you can absolutely believe that a seadweller has drowned in these waters before.

You take your time preparing for the frigid Miylas waters. Temperatures on Eraniel are cooler than what you’re used to, making it necessary to wear a dry suit. You allow yourself extra time to ensure each piece of your diving gear is functional and meticulously in place. After securing the air tank in your backpack, you connect the regulators with a practiced hand before donning the equipment and securing it to yourself.

Before entering the water, you conduct one last thorough pre-dive safety check, verifying that all equipment is functioning correctly and your air supply is ample for the planned dive duration. Your dive plan, carefully calculated for this mystical dive site, promises breathtaking discoveries. The maximum depth you will be diving is 117 smoots—this is nowhere near the bottom, but you’ve heard tales of colorful and vibrant marine life along the vertical reef walls that descend down the blue hole.

The moment your body plunges beneath the pristine surface of the Miylas Sea, you're met with an ethereal world of underwater beauty. Sunlight filters down, casting an enchanting glow on the coral reef below. A kaleidoscope of colors greets your eyes as you glide through this underwater wonderland, the vibrant corals swaying gently in the currents. Schools of vibrant fish dart playfully among the coral, creating a mesmerizing dance of life beneath the waves. Graceful sea turtles glide effortlessly through the water, their ancient eyes meeting yours with an air of wisdom.

The vibrant marine life is thriving, a harmonious symphony of existence. While online forums and videos alluded to such underwater beauty, you now realize that nothing you had watched or read about the blue hole could compare to the real deal. The entire space around you—above, below, everywhere you look—is enveloped by sea life that pays you little mind. It feels like you’ve been deposited into an entirely different world, where no matter which direction you go, more beauty is bound to be. It’s difficult to characterize this feeling, although you and countless others have attempted to time and time again. There is something about floating in the blue space, where your place in the universe feels concrete as if you are where you truly belong, not merely a visitor. It’s this feeling that keeps you coming back to the seas.

As you venture further into the depths, the aquatic scenery remains breathtaking. Shoals of shimmering fish part before your approach, their silvery bodies flashing like liquid mercury. Majestic rays gracefully soar above the seabed, their wings casting shadows on the coral fixtures below. As you descend, the reef takes on a surreal appearance, entering an underwater realm that feels like an unexplored dreamscape. Ancient, towering structures of coral rise from the depths as if touched by the hands of the divine. The beauty and tranquility of the deep blue surrounds you, immersing you in a sense of awe.

However, as you venture deeper, you notice a subtle shift in the marine life. The once vibrant reef starts to show signs of life's absence. Coral polyps appear bleached and lifeless, their colors fading into a ghostly pallor. The schools of fish that once danced before your eyes are now sparse, their numbers dwindling as you delve further into the unknown. While this strikes you as odd, you suppose this isn’t outside the realm of possibility. Although the decreasing numbers of other marine life could be explained by your slowly increasing depth, you’re puzzled by the coral’s diminishing presence. Perhaps some variety of pollution poisoning caused by frequent divers? However, you hold your doubts in the back of your mind, as it’s a reasonably advanced dive and secluded area.

It's an eerie feeling, the sense of isolation growing as you seem to be the only living being in this hauntingly quiet abyss. A deep-seated unease creeps into your heart, but your desire to explore drives you forward. You want to at least reach your planned depth, although, at this rate of marine decay, you can’t confidently say there will be much left to see, if anything. As you descend even deeper, the life around you continues to diminish. The once vibrant ecosystem seems to fade away, leaving you alone in the silence of the depths. It's as if the ocean itself holds its breath, and a foreboding sense of loneliness envelops you.

In the face of this vast emptiness, you can't help but wonder if the legend of The Necrosed holds some semblance of truth. The thought lingers in your mind as you push forward, the allure of discovery conflicting with the haunting emptiness surrounding you.

Without warning, the water around you darkens, thickening into an ominous haze, obscuring your vision. It’s an unsettling sensation, this unexpected descent into darkness, especially when the nearest surface still lays hundreds of feet below you, and there’s no silt to be stirred up otherwise. Panic begins to claw at the edges of your mind, a primal instinct warning you of unseen dangers lurking in the depths.

Your heart quickens as disorientation grips you, and your surroundings blur and distort, twisting into grotesque shapes that seem to mock your senses. The once serene underwater landscape morphs into a nightmarish tableau, a twisted reflection of your deepest fears and anxieties.

Flashes of unfamiliar memories flicker like lightning in the murky depths, casting eerie shadows in your mind. A golden-lit ballroom, an off-color blueblood in a ballgown with sunny eyes. The sway of a storm-ridden seafront underneath the boughs of a moored ship, bright blue eyes twinkling beside you. Dark, ink-like stains along a wooden deck, blotted by rain pellets. Faces you don’t recognize leer out at you between scenes, their eyes filled with malice and contempt. Whispers echo through the water, a chorus of voices that distort each other.

Despite your sweeps of underwater defense training, you give into the panic. You begin to hyperventilate, wasting precious air. You try to push the visions away, to banish them and swim away, but you don’t know which way is up. The whispers cling to you like tendrils of darkness, pulling you deeper into the abyss. You struggle to make sense of the swirling maelstrom of images and sensations, but the more you fight, the deeper you sink into the labyrinth.

Time loses all meaning as you drift through the murky depths—is that where you are anymore?—lost in a nightmarish haze of fear and confusion. You try to remember why you came here, what you were doing, and who you are, but the answers slip through your fingers like water, leaving you grasping at shadows.

#mikwrites #this has been sitting around FAR TOO LONG so i decided to chop it up into bits #just so im more motivated to actually work on it #this guy doesnt get a name hes chopped liver #aipalo lovikk #the necrosed #mikart

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wisz9e6j7c0z3 · 1 year

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neutronstcr · 1 year

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top 5 magias da mira

ask my top5 anything!

Miranda é uma linda que se garante em batalha, mas o rolê dela mesmo é baforar com magia e controlar as sombras. E mesmo tendo todo o aesthetic de uma evil witch, na verdade ela faz o que pode pra proteger o Acampamento Júpiter e as pessoas que ama.

Os poderes da Miranda são... gore, pra descrever isso de uma maneira simples. Um dos domínios de Trívia são ciclos, e Mira tem certo controle sobre eles. Ela consegue acelerar a decomposição de uma ferida com seu toque necrosante, o que torna a cura beirando o impossível.

Miranda também tem domínio sobre as sombras. É mais fácil se já tiver alguma sombra no ambiente para que ela possa controlá-la, mas tem feitiços escritos para que possa terminar com fontes de luz muito fortes. Então, diria que fazer um cômodo cair em escuridão quando bem deseja. Ah, e é claro que ela consegue ver através das próprias sombras, então isso é um baita problema para os seus inimigos.

Um dos outros domínios de Trívia é a feitiçaria, o que se manifesta na capacidade de Miranda de criar rituais escritos e lançar feitiços usando sua mente e afinidade com elementos. Ao combinar as sombras e a feitiçaria, consegue criar sombras sólidas, que usa de armas e obstáculos. Sua conexão com o seu Grimório fortalece o seu poder e consegue desenvolver rituais para efeitos diversos.

Trívia é a Deusa que controla o véu mágico, e Miranda consegue fazer manipulações e truques com a Névoa com uma maior facilidade do que outros semideuses. Geralmente, usa suas adagas para concentrar o poder, já que o par Aster e Aconitum foram presentes da própria mãe divina para se defender nas ruas. Então enganar monstros ao aparecer e desaparecer é uma das minhas coisas favoritas, e as da Mira também.

Os filhos de Trívia tem afinidade com Ferro Estígio e adagas, e isso na mão de Miranda é um perigo. Não chega a ser uma magia definida como apodrecer carne ou solidificar sombras, mas é uma das maiores fontes de dano de Mira, que é uma rogue completamente ignorante na hora de lutar contra monstrinhos.

Mira é muito poderosa, e as habilidades primárias dela sempre me permitiram fazer coisas muito divertidas (lê-se destruir bicho da maneira mais bizarra possível). Desenvolver esse lado (carniceiro) de batalha dela é sempre muito bom, então gosto muito de lembrar dessas coisinhas <3 uma princesa.

#✱ answered.#greencruz #✦ the astonishing ›› miranda gray.#n faço ideia se fez sentido mas qualquer coisa eu explico q #é basicamente magia de necrose; escuridão total; solidificar sombras; manipulação de névoa #e ai ADAGAS ! laminas LAMINAS ela ama facas

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vanderilnde · 4 months

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simon riley/f!reader

warnings: simon is an amputee, implied alcoholism, implied painkiller addiction

Johnny forces Simon to a veterans support group. The latter is less than pleased with the idea—that is, of course, until a little birdy catches Simon’s eye.

—

Simon smells you before he sees you.

However, it's been five months since his honourable discharge, and he's a dead man walking, so he supposes the same could be said for him.

It's the roasting stench of pungent malt. Permeating through the froth of his balaclava and burning his nostrils. He canters his head to the side, sweeping the basement with his hackles raised.

"What's your name?" Comes from the front of the room, scotching Simon's thoughts, to which he mumbles, "Simon."

A peal of "Hi Simon," ripples through the basement, and he cringes.

He was rotting in his flat when Johnny visited. Against everything, it was a sweet respite—seeing his face after so long. He filled him in on what he'd missed, though technically, that isn't allowed anymore. Simon isn't SAS. The only thing connecting him to the military now is his pension, sapped into streaming sites and grocery deliver apps.

He supposes Johnny saw his overripe, threadbare balaclava. Saw a spread of painkillers rooted on every surface. Saw the progress of Simon’s leg, how it ripened from a necrosed nub into an alloy, fused with the silicone of his prosthetic that is two shades too dark for his skin. Then, Johnny forced him here.

"I can't come—veteran's only, but my cousin used ta go to one of 'ese," Johnny said, "it'll do you good."

It's a room with various breeds of military personnel. All at various ranks. Extensions of themselves in crutches and wheelchairs; regressions of them in eyepatches and arm-casts.

The man says, "Well, you’re late. We’re almost finished here."

Simon blindly nods. He can smell you again. Pervasive ethanol and barbed impurities, swirling around his head. He finds a chair too small for him and sits down, heeding how it wanes under his weight.

The man starts talking again. But for Simon, the voice turns to filaments. Droned out and greyscale against his impaired senses. Fermented sorghum burns his eyes as Simon sweeps his head to the side, catching a glint of light winking back at him.

He finally sees you.

Simon finds himself back in the jungle, in the middle of an operation. Sweaty and damp and dewy between clement leaves as he eyes down an X-ray.

Your eyes hold the same sentiment of intimidation. They’re red-rimmed with veiny scythes but bore a glimmer bespoken for the stars. Your hard stare inspires a flare in Simon’s heart. Something so off-putting that it drills itself into his bones and burns the sealant in his prosthetic.

You part your lips. They have a forgone softness to them, now cut and peeled in different corners, akin to the ruins of Babylon. Vodka sticks to the roof of your mouth as you dart out your tongue, wetting your lips.

"See that guy over there?"

Marginally, Simon flinches. Your voice is softer than anticipated. Softer than your rotgut scent and your strands of silage hair.

He follows the streamline of your gaze. To an underdeveloped man sitting with his back hunched, eyes puffy, across the room.

"He's here 'cause he got home and caught his girlfriend fucking another bloke," a wheeze collapses your sentence, "isn't that hilarious?"

Simon stares at him. Then he hangs his head, staring at his leg. He sees his prosthetic jut out and distort the denim of his jeans, and, in spite of himself, Simon chuckles. It is hilarious.

"He calls it traumatic," you slouch in your seat, "try seeing your mate get blown to pieces."

Simon is quiet. But that doesn't off-put you, because you're leaning in closer and examining his mask.

"What branch were you?"

He keeps his eyes locked on the opposite wall. "Parachute reg."

"Battalion?"

"... Third."

You narrow your eyes. "So, Special Air Service."

He expels a loose laugh. Scratches the scruff of his neck. "Sure."

"Could've just said that," you frown, “I was SRR, so we might’ve crossed paths.”

Simon hitches his eyes up, chancing another glance at you.

You don't look SRR. But again, Simon doesn't look SAS.

He grunts, “How the mighty’ve fallen, eh?”

A lukewarm chuckle escapes you. “Yeah.”

The sound of your laugh inspires warmth in Simon’s belly. He doesn’t know what to say, but he knows he wants to say something. He feels a chord to keep the conversation going; to not disappoint you.

Simon feels like Icarus flying too close to the sun.

“Why’d you leave?” He says, leaning a little closer.

“You’re never supposed to ask that,” you murmur, “but I like you, so I’ll bite. OTH. Got nicked in Bulford for radical interrogation tactics. Whatever that shit means.”

Simon grunts. His cadence offers a hint of condolence, but you just laugh. “I’m glad to be out of there. And you? Why are you here?”

“C4 explosion,” he grumbles, “honourable discharge.”

You hum. “Goody two shoes.”

A waspish blush dominates the furrows of Simon’s crows feet. He brokenly mumbles under his breath, embarrassed, preening under your gaze.

His rebuttal idles at the threshold of his mouth. It collapses on his tongue when you stand up, fishing cigarette from your breast pocket.

“I’m going,” you say, “will I see you next week?”

Simon’s neck twitches and rockets into a nod. Immediately, he is looking forward to next week. He believes a byproduct of second-hand drinking has vitiated him, as when you walk away, hips swaying, Simon feels drunk.

As Simon sits stupefied, left without a heart as you’d taken his on your way out, he curses to himself.

Simon didn’t get your name.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #cod mw2 #simon ghost x you #simon writing #writing #veteran!simon

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